Crash and Burn (19 page)

“In your reporting,” Krista said, “did you come across any potential motives for Sheffield’s murder? Besides the obvious?”

“You mean besides someone hitting him for his car? In an alley thirty-six miles from his house, where he had no apparent reason to be in the middle of the night?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He have any enemies you know about?”

“Probably had plenty. He was sued for malpractice a few times. I hear the police looked into that, but nothing came of it.”

“What about life insurance?” she asked.

“Two mil. It went to his wife.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Depends on your perspective,” he said. “For a doctor living in Brentwood, it’s not over the top. Anyway, the police checked her out, but never really considered her a suspect. And Saurez turned up, so that was that.”

“And they’re sure Saurez didn’t have an accomplice? Maybe a buddy who boosted the car with him?”

“He was with friends earlier in the night, but when he cut through the alley, apparently he was alone.”

Wayland checked his watch, probably realizing this was turning into a one-way conversation and he was wasting his time. He scooted out of the booth and pulled a business card from his pocket. “You come up with anything interesting, I’d appreciate a call.”

“Interesting how?”

 “Witnesses who stay missing. People who disappear. That kind of thing.”

“You don’t think she’ll testify?”

“I don’t think you’ll find her.” He handed her the card. “And I think there’s a lot more to this case than meets the eye.”

~ ~ ~

The Grove Motel was located in a sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of Anaheim. To the east it abutted a dead strip center with plywood covering the windows. To the west was a series of warehouses, each surrounded by fences topped with razor wire. Just across from the motel parking lot were some brick industrial buildings tagged with gang graffiti. All things considered, not exactly a destination for families visiting Disneyland.

Krista surveyed the area as she pulled into the motel parking lot. It was after midnight. The only two businesses with lights on were the motel and a gas station four blocks east.

Vinh Nguyen seemed to have some customers, though. He had twenty rooms total—ten up, ten down—and judging by lighted windows, he was at fifty percent occupancy.

Krista pulled up to the front office, but she didn’t get out. A fiftyish woman with black hair and glasses manned the front desk, and Krista guessed she was Nguyen’s wife. The woman glanced at Krista’s car briefly before returning her attention to her computer screen.

Krista looked around, getting a feel for the place. A glowing red Coke machine sat beneath the outdoor stairwell, and a shirtless man stood there, feeding coins into a slot. On the upper floor, a man with a six-pack under his arm shoved a key card into a door and stepped inside. At the far end of the building, a thin woman in micro-shorts and magenta wig stood on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone.

Krista glanced at the desk clerk again. She glanced at the mouth of the alley where Alan Sheffield’s body was discovered. She put her car in gear and pulled around to the parking lot, where she found an empty space.

She got out and shrugged into her jacket. A breeze kicked up, and she realized the leather smelled like garbage. It would have to be professionally cleaned—another expensive errand to add to her ever-growing list.

The street wasn’t too busy, so she didn’t bother walking to the corner but trotted across to the mouth of the alley. The buildings on either side were three-stories tall and blocked most of the light. The alley stretched five blocks, and at the end, Krista saw the distant lights of traffic on what looked to be a busy street.

Stepping between the buildings felt like stepping into a cave. The air was cool and heavy with the smell of rot and pollution. She beamed her flashlight around, noting grime and graffiti on the chipped bricks. A rusty Dumpster sat about twenty yards in. Krista approached it and crouched down. She examined the pock-marked pavement, as if it might have some clues to yield after all this time. She stood up and stepped back toward the mouth of the alley and the relative brightness of the open street. The office of the Grove Motel glowed like a beacon on the other side, but she couldn’t see the desk clerk. Krista took a few more steps, until she was back on the sidewalk. Still, it was impossible to see the front desk from her angle. If she couldn’t see the clerk, how could the clerk see her? She walked back to the building and eased into a shadow. From that angle, she couldn’t even see the motel’s glass door, much less the front desk.

“Hey, bitch.”

Krista whirled around. Her heart jumped into her throat as a stocky, bald man stepped from the shadows. She reached for her gun and someone shoved her from behind, sending her stumbling into the bald guy’s chest. A hand clamped her ponytail and yanked her head back as an arm snaked around her middle. Pain zinged from her scalp and her eyes burned. She was sandwiched between two men, one with a shaved head and menacing black eyes and one she couldn’t see. But she could feel the hard wall of his body and smell his sweat.

“This ain’t your neighborhood, bitch.”

Her heart hammered wildly. Her gun was in the holster at her back, digging into her spine, but her hands were locked behind her as the bald guy eased closer.

“My money’s in my pocket.” Her voice was a squeak. “You can have it.”

The black eyes narrowed. He smelled like beer and B.O. She tried to shift her shoulders and reach for her gun, but other guy’s grip tightened.

Shaved Head eased closer and shoved his hand in her pocket, but he wasn’t reaching for money. He smiled down at her, revealing crooked yellow teeth.

She slammed her knee up into his groin, then pounded her heel on the foot behind her. A curse boomed in her ear. She jerked her arms free, whirled, and tried to land a kick in his kneecap, but she was off-balance and didn’t connect.

“Fucking
bitch!
”

A fist smashed into her temple. She saw stars for a moment, then recovered and pivoted with a sharp jab to the throat. He staggered back, red-faced and choking.

Meanwhile his friend was doubled over in pain. He looked up, his face twisted with rage. He charged her. She jumped sideways and gave him a kick in the hip that sent him sprawling across the pavement.

A jaw-rattling shove knocked her to the ground. She tasted blood and the first spurt of panic because she was down now with him looming above her. She reached for her gun as a brutal kick connected with her shoulder. She grunted and rolled away, scrambling for her weapon as got to her knees. She grabbed the pistol and jerked it free.

“Back off!” she screamed, pointing at the closest shadow.

His face changed as he saw the gun. He stepped back. Five-five, one-fifty. Baggy jeans, gray hoodie. She cataloged the description as she pointed her weapon at his center body mass.

“Three steps back,” she ordered, sounding calmer now, even though her heart was galloping.

Blood pooled in her mouth. Her chest hurt. But she kept her hands steady, and he stepped back, bumping into his friend, who was limping toward her now with blood streaming from his lip. She eyed their jackets for bulges and prayed they weren’t packing, too, or this could get very ugly very fast.

Shaved Head cursed and took another clumsy step before his buddy caught him.

“Fuck it, she’s got a gun.”

The bald guy froze. A heartbeat later, both of them bolted down the alley.

Krista listened to their shoes on the pavement and watched them dart around the corner. For a moment she didn’t move, just knelt there with her arms outstretched, clutching her pistol in the two-handed grip she’d learned at the police academy. Her lungs burned. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She lowered her arms and stood up. She glanced around, hyper-aware now of every shadow and noise, every potential threat, as she should have been from the very beginning.

Her limbs started to quiver as she retraced her steps to the parking lot. The adrenaline surge was fading and pain flooded in to take its place. Her palms stung. Her knees ached and the side of her head throbbed.

She should have been more alert, less consumed with her task. What good did it do her to pack a pistol if knowing she had it made her let down her guard? If Scarlet were here, she’d lecture her. R.J., too. And they’d both be right.

Still clutching her gun, Krista crossed the parking lot on wobbly legs. She slid into her car. She dug her keys from her pocket, and the geriatric Impala shuddered and coughed as she started it.

~ ~ ~

Scarlet poured two-fingers of Glenfiddich and slid the glass across the bar.

“I don’t drink scotch.”

“It’ll take the edge off,” she said. “You’re getting a nasty bruise.”

Krista adjusted the icepack at her temple. She glanced around the pub, which was empty except for a waitress wiping down tables. Good thing because Krista’s
eau de garbage
wasn’t doing much for Diego’s ambiance. Diego ran a popular hangout not far from the beach. Scarlet was his upstairs tenant and occasionally helped out behind the bar.

“So how smart is this girl?” Scarlet leaned forward on her elbows.

“I can’t tell. She’s managed to dodge Walker, but he’s only been looking for a few days.”

“And you think he might have Flynn on it?”

“I know he does.”

Scarlet frowned. “Didn’t Walker do this once before?”

“A year ago,” Krista said. “I spent a week running down some sleazebag drug dealer who was set to testify, only to have R.J. show up and steal him out from under me.”

“Walker’s an ass.”

Krista sighed. “I’m tempted to ditch, but this hasn’t exactly been a great summer money-wise.”

 “Plus you’re worried about the girl.” Scarlet gave her a knowing look. “Pretend all you want, Hart, but I know about your noble streak.”

Krista toyed with the glass. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I don’t know why. I just—” She shrugged. Then she lifted the glass and tipped back a sip. “Jesus
Christ
!” She choked and wheezed as Scarlet grinned. “What is that?”

“Fifteen-year single-malt. Only the best for my padnah.”

“God.” Krista clutched her throat. “Remind me not to drop in again for business advice.”

“You want advice? Go home and get a shower. And a good night’s sleep.”

“I’ve got a noon deadline.”

“Which we both know you’re not going to hit.”

Krista slid off the stool. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Hey, no offense. Walker set you up for failure with this one. Happens to the best of them.”

“I’m not giving up yet.” She shouldered her purse and tried to muster some dignity as she handed back the icepack. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime. Too bad about our six grand. Easy come, easy go, right?”

“It’s not gone yet.” Krista glanced at her watch. “I’ve still got ten hours.”

Chapter Three

A loud rapping noise jerked Krista from sleep. She squinted at the alarm clock. She was on top of the covers with her notebook computer still open beside her. Her bedroom smelled like freezer burn. Probably because she’d dozed off with an icy bag of peas pressed against her face.

She sat up and put her hand to her temple. Her head pounded. Her tongue was swollen where she’d bitten it. She rolled her aching shoulders and figured she had a monster bruise on her arm by now.

She grabbed a few aspirin from the bottle beside her clock and swallowed them dry. They hadn’t helped last night, and neither had the hot shower or the icepack. But it was a new day, and there was nothing to do but get up and try again.

She glanced down at her oversized UC Santa Cruz T-shirt as she shuffled across the house. It fit the moment. She’d never felt so much like a banana slug.

More door-pounding.

Besides being her computer guru at work, Mac was also the tenant in her upstairs apartment. He was invisible most of the time, but every now and then, he dropped in to watch
Justified
or grab an emergency bottle of Yoo-hoo on his way to class. It was a symbiotic relationship, and Krista hit him up for tech support at all hours of the day and night.

But it wasn’t a skinny kid with glasses who stood on her doorstep.

“Morning, sunshine.”

R.J. Flynn whisked past her into the house.

She trailed him into the kitchen, where he dumped a grocery bag on the counter and started digging through her cabinets. He dragged out her dusty blender and thrust the plug into an outlet.

Some men looked stupid in ponytails. R.J. wasn’t one of them. His dark hair was pulled back in a rubber band at the base of his neck, accentuating his strong jaw and cheekbones. He wore shorts, running shoes, and a sweat-dampened T-shirt that showed off his ridiculously ripped upper body. He threw some veggies in the blender and fired it up.

Krista shuffled past him toward the coffee pot, and he snagged her arm.

“What happened to your face?” He took her chin and tilted her head back to look at the bruise.

“Took a wrong turn down an alley. Some guy jumped me.” Actually a couple of guys, but she didn’t want to be dramatic.

His lips tightened and the raw concern in his eyes made her stomach flutter.

“Just a few scratches. I’m fine.” She pulled away from him.

“Why didn’t you have your gun with you?”

“I did.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Did you shoot him in the dick?”

“Wasn’t in the mood for paperwork.”

He stared at her a long moment.

“You should be more careful,” he said, returning to his green concoction. “Veggie frap?”

“I’m trying to quit.”

She scooped Folgers into her coffeemaker. Unlike the one at the office, it was an idiot-proof Mr. Coffee, and she could work it just fine. She noticed one of the bags sitting on the counter. She peered inside, and the tantalizing aroma of breakfast tacos wafted up. How had she missed it? Probably because her brain was scrambled by all the R.J. pheromones in her kitchen.